


Nine Drops

by Professur



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professur/pseuds/Professur
Summary: A short story about two Horde loyalists and the unpleasant tasks they must attend to. Ongoing.





	1. Chapter 1

**1**

Brilla pushed back the crimson drapes and blinked sleepily against the bright sun of early morning in Silvermoon City. The ivory towers glittered at their peaks, and a solitary mana wyrm idly nosed the glass, sensing her essence. Today was the day, and she couldn’t be more nervous - not that she would admit that to herself. She turned her back on the view haughtily and crossed to her mirror.

Lor’themar had known just how to approach her; it had been a problem before. “The defense of Silvermoon relies on this,” he had told her, and of course she had leaped to volunteer. Never mind that this was the busiest the Arcane Society had been in a year. Thalyssra’s visit had galvanized the magical community as never before, and here she was taking  _ two weeks _ outside of the city proper. Things would proceed apace, and she wouldn’t be here. She shuddered to imagine her peers attempting to grapple with the esoteric nature of Highborne sorcery without her. Although, it was true that they posed no danger - and the same couldn’t be said of the Amani. But really - to waste her time with  _ trolls _ !

It had been a  _ very  _ long time since the Troll Wars, and she had taken the ‘opportunity’ to meet some of the Darkspear casters several years back, when the blood elves had formalized their entry into the Horde. She hadn’t been impressed with their coarse sense of humour or their airs. They were used to being seen as the black sheep of their society, and they carried their resentment on their hunched backs. Of course the Amani were far worse, with their obsession for hexes, but she just didn’t find much in the average troll to attract her interest.

As she dressed, she mused. Halduran had been most insistent - the end of the Fourth War did not mean that the blood elves were safer. If anything, the introduction of the Zandalari into the Horde threatened the careful detente that had been established during the time of the Cataclysm. Rastakhan’s death had been a disaster for Horde prestige amongst the disparate troll tribes. A reminder of Horde strength was necessary. For years, diplomatic relations with the remnants of the Amani, such as they were, had been Halduran’s responsibility, but with Sylvanas’s defection, he was needed in Orgrimmar with Lor’themar. 

She pushed Sylvanas out of her mind, very deliberately, and smoothed her robe. Of course, if they were doing things in the old way, she would have just taken a contingent of mages and fireballed Zul’Aman back to the time of the Sundering. But there was a new world order now, and such things were likely to complicate it. Better to meet with the Amani, under truce, and remind them of how things must be. With Silvermoon’s borders secure, our attention would be free to steer the Horde in the right direction. 

All this had been explained to her - but she still didn’t understand why she had to take  _ him _ .


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Later that morning, Brilla stood on the cobblestones of Murder Row, frowning. Her magisterial robes meant that most people on the street gave her a wide berth, and the ones that recognized her studiously pretended that they did not. She disliked coming here, but her orders had been most clear. “This one won’t come to you - he’s proud. He’ll want to meet you somewhere that he thinks is outside of your comfort zone, to test your mettle. Do oblige him.”

He had certainly managed that. The building in front of her was a tavern, but not a nice one. One of the newer establishments that were attempting to capitalize on the arcwine craze that was sweeping the city. It still surprised her that in a city with a thousand and one uses for mana, nobody had considered  _ drinking  _ the stuff until the Nightborne had come along. Of course, Thalyssra’s people had acquired a taste for fine vintages over the centuries - but blood elves were a more volatile people, with more aggressive tastes. Most of the arcwine produced in the city would make a Nightborne cry tears of horror, with all subtlety abandoned. The most popular mixture was known as a “mana bomb”. She considered that in bad taste.

Still, she was hardly going to falter at the first flag. She pushed the shabbily painted green door open, and the sound inside dipped momentarily, before resuming with a forced joviality. A few figures rose and left out the back door, avoiding her gaze, clearly unhappy to see a Magister. But she had no attention to spare for them, for her processing power was taken up by the specimen in front of her.

He was so  _ purple! _ That was the first thing she noticed about him, and it was impossible not to - a truly vast amount of skin was on display. He was a younger troll, as far as she could tell, and his lavender skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat that seemed to cause him no discomfort. He was lying on a table that was pressed up against the wall, stirring his drink with a long toothpick and listening raptly to a skinny elf who looked slightly the worse for wear. He must have been a full seven feet long, and what little armour he did wear was gaudy and golden - gifts from the Zandalari, if she was any judge. His mane of brown hair was close cropped - for a troll - and he wore two short braids that dangled on either side of his head foolishly. He looked like a brash young pit fighter, or perhaps a runner for the Orcish armies.

_ This is the Speaker of the Horde?  _ she asked herself silently.

“And here be my companion, right on time!” the gargantuan exclaimed happily. The noise level in the bar stayed steady, but Brilla could feel the eyebrows around her raise.

“Speaker, I presume. How do you do?” she said awkwardly.

“I be doing just fine, mon. I be sampling your city’s famous mana bombs. Though I did be hearing they went down less fine at Theramore.” His weedy companion guffawed drunkenly, and she narrowed her eyes. 

“The Lady of Theramore certainly made her displeasure with our...mixology...known in Dalaran. But you didn’t invite me here to discuss history. I have been given a task that you wish to assist in. You require information and I am here to provide it.”

The troll sat upright and threw his legs over the side of the table. “So you are. But before we be getting on with all of that, my new friend here be offering me a job!” He indicated the man by his side, who was starting to look a little uncomfortable at Brilla’s withering stare.

“My itinerary does not allow for side work. State your business.”

“Whurrl,” the man slurred, “it’s like this. I got a shipment of arcwine that needs moving from outside the city to inside, without going by way of customs, if you catch my meaning.” He thumbed the side of his nose with difficulty, then went on. “I thought to myself, why not hire a troll? Big strong fellas, quick on their feet. Never seen a troll before, not up close anyway. This one’s very nice. Hasn’t et anyone the whole time I’ve been here.”

Brilla bristled, looking between the two. “Smuggling is prohibited, by the direct order of the Lord Regent. I’m now under an obligation to report you or I risk losing my position.”

The man’s eyes widened and he took a step back, but the troll unfurled an arm and draped it across his shoulders. “Now now, you wouldn’t get my new friend in trouble, would ya? After all, we gotta travel together, and you wouldn’t want to be offending me when we only just met…”

Brilla turned on him, suddenly furious. This troll was an official of the Horde, same as her, and that came with  _ responsibilities _ ! You didn’t just dally with the lower classes - they were at  _ war _ , by the Light, and this sort of petty criminality was beneath her. But then she caught something in his grin, and in the way that his arm was draped across the uncomfortable rogue. It almost looked as though he was holding him in place, waiting for her decision. She was being tested again. She held his gaze.

“I will be turning him in, and if you decide to work with him, I will turn you in too.”

He stared back into her eyes, totally fearless, and then his grin dropped. He took his arm from the elf’s shoulders and gave him a light shove in the chest. “I think you best be getting out of here, mon. Now.”

The hapless smuggler fled. Brilla briefly entertained the notion of chasing him, but her responsibility was still to this strange figure in front of her. She suspected that the troll would never have worked with the elf - that he had simply struck up a conversation with the seediest looking character he could find. Her irritation fled in the wake of wondering if she had passed judgement, but as the troll sipped his drink and said nothing it slowly returned.

“I was told that I would find the Speaker of the Horde here, not some sword-for-hire.”

“Speaker of de Horde? That be a pretty title on Zandalar, but here it loses some power. A sword-for-hire is always useful, though. You be calling me Professur, and I be calling you Brilla, and we will be friends.” 

She scowled at him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Joke? Nah, nah nah. I be called Profesh-ur by my mama.”

“Ah, so you’re not an academic.” Brilla said, smiling condescendingly.

“Actually, I teach hematology in Orgrimmar.”

For a moment she thought she’d misheard. She gaped at him in shock, but his face stayed deadly serious. There was an awkward pause.

“I’m sure that’s an interesting place to study...that field.” she managed. 

“Sure, sure. De orcs have good theories on blood - they spill enough of it. But de real interesting stuff is in our blood - yours and mine. You know we’re cousins, right? De elves and de trolls. Your great-great-great-great grandpappy looked like me.” He laughed, but he was watching her closely for her reaction.

“Yes, but your great-great-great granddaughter probably won’t look like me. We are shaped by our environments - by mana, or fel, or just high altitude. Can you truly say that we’re of the same family?”

“Who can say? I think dat de blood knows, though. De blood remembers.” Professur looked grim for a moment, but then his smile returned. Brilla got the impression that it never left for long. “So! Our holiday in Zul’aman - how’s dis gonna work?”


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

It turned out that their Zul'aman holiday would barely work at all. Word had spread that Halduran wouldn't be overseeing the negotiations this year, and Brilla had been inundated by well-wishers and alarmists, all seeking to give her advice on how to deal with the trolls. Violence was the most common suggestion, often delivered most creatively, but a few more worldly elves had offered her some useful tidbits. Don't eat anything, but the water will be clean. The mosquitoes will prefer you to the trolls, so pack a face net. She was told it was a shame that she didn't play a musical instrument, tutted over by the representative from the Empyrean Society, and measured for travelling trousers. She organized hawkstriders and hand-picked their honor guard. She brushed her long blonde hair out until it gleamed, and she sat up late into the night, studying Halduran's notes.

As far as she could tell, Professur did nothing. For the three days they prepared, he showed his face in the palace once and her home twice - always with food or drink and always with a grin. He had no retinue and carried no weapons, which put her off slightly. She had heard he was a champion fighter - that _was_ how trolls and orcs tended to make a name for themselves - but she hadn't expected a monk. He didn't dress or act like a monk, true, but if he started spouting off about karma she would...well, she would politely excuse herself. He may yet prove to be a fool, but he was also Speaker of the Horde, no matter how he downplayed it. Rank was rank.

As for herself, she made no bones about the fact that she had been off the front lines for too long. She sent to Rommath for a suitable weapon, and the courier returned to her with a serviceable iron staff that warmed as soon as she touched the haft. She smiled as she dismissed the arcane servant, satisfied as much by the political clout such a gift demonstrated as by its usefulness. Her bow, though - that she strung herself. She would never walk the glades of the Eversong Forest without her bow again.

Finally, the preparations had been completed, and it was a cool and bright afternoon that they left the city. Brilla turned her hawkstrider towards the gates and closed her nose against the reek of the Dead Scar. Professur sat beside her, ill at ease, on an enormous raptor who was dressed in even more gold than he was. She had worried that it would spook the mounts of her compatriots, but the hawkstriders behind them had closed ranks and were watching suspiciously, content at a distance. As for her own mount, it was a brilliant purple and had the temperament of the average murloc. It was too stupid to be afraid and was more interested in the bazaar's many shiny items. She was having to keep a tight rein, but she liked knowing that her mount was the fastest. It gave a sense of freedom, of safety.

Professur didn't seem as enthused, however. His habitual grin was gone, and he kept stealing disgusted glances at her mount as it strutted along. She had gathered from his earlier muttered complaints that he didn't like birds, but she wasn't going to bring it up if he wasn't. And so, silently, they slipped out of Silvermoon.

The journey through Eversong was as smooth and bittersweet as she had expected it to be. There was the delay of a half-day as they resupplied near the border, and Professur took the opportunity to hunt lynx. She saw very little of him in the four days between Silvermoon and the border, and she was largely left alone with her memories.

The border was a different matter. It took a  _ full day _ to make the crossing, with the unctuous Deathguard on duty taking what was in her mind a criminal amount of time to confirm their documents and details. She - and each of her retinue - sat through a ponderous lecture on the increased activities of the Scourge in the Ghostlands, and repeated warnings to watch their ‘pretty ears’. By the time the crossing was made, the idle time and the increasing smell of corruption was enough to make their mounts antsy, and they had to set camp far earlier than she would have liked.

By way of protest, she set her tent at the tallest point of their campsite, the crest of a hillock slightly elevated from her retinue. Her companions were wise enough to understand the unspoken message, and as her tent unfolded and erected itself in billows of crimson she fumed in solitude. Another two days to Zul’Aman, perhaps three. She would be extremely lucky to be away for a simple fortnight.

That night she built her bonfire extra tall, for her own pleasure. She moved her mount so that her feathers didn’t singe. The brute of a bird had grown on her somewhat.


	4. Chapter 4

The next night, she camped in a copse of trees, and her more conservative bonfire attracted a single visitor, and the unwelcome smell of fish guts. Brilla hoped that this wouldn’t be some kind of primitive hazing ritual, but as the fish was cleaned and cooked they sat in slightly uncomfortable silence together. When she thanked him for the plate, she realized they had been sitting there for almost an hour. She felt a faint flush of embarrassment that she had found the simple act of the troll preparing a meal to be so engrossing. She still wasn’t quite used to how he moved - low to the ground, but here and there unfurling to his full and impressive height. 

When they had finished, Professur clacked his fork against his tusks in appreciation, set his plate aside, and without preamble said “So, blood elves.”

There was a pause as she set her own plate aside. This was nothing unusual. Racial politics were at the heart of the Horde, despite a public pretense to the contrary. Discord was rare, but disagreement was common. “What about us?”

“Don’t you think that de name is a little presumptuous? Lots of people be seeing bloodshed.”

Of all the objections he could have voiced, this one was a surprise. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, projecting an aura of frosty judgement. “Cut your flesh and count the drops of blood. Let nine fall and soak the earth for every one you save. Tell me what that does to your heart.”

Professur made an appreciative noise. “You know, I think I be hearing that somewhere before. Tell me who said dat.”

Brilla shifted uncomfortably. “You wouldn’t recognize the name.”

Professur snapped his fingers. “That’s right - I remember now! It was in _History of the Third War_ , by Rommath. He was quoting Prince Kael’thas. Have you read it?”

Brilla did not bother to hide her surprise. “No...I haven’t. I was there when he said it.”

Professur whistled. “Dat prince, he came to a bad end. But do you think he was right? There are other elves in de world, after all. Dey didn’t all bleed.”

“There are other trolls in the world too - are they the same as the Darkspear?” she shot back.

“Dey are not. It is good dat you understand dat, considering what we have to do here.” he said gravely. “De Amani know all about blood. I would hate to see you going from a blood elf to a dead elf.”

“Why are you here?” she demanded, suddenly tired of being led by the nose. “This isn’t just about the Amani. You’re the Speaker of the Horde - you could have twenty trolls older than you here if you thought you needed to.” Inwardly she winced at the breach of protocol, but none of her companions were close enough to their fire to hear her, and the troll’s comments had been intensely personal. 

The troll still looked serious. “Maybe I wanted to see where de last Warchief came from.”

Brilla gave a genteel laugh. “Sightseeing? I don’t believe you.”

Professur held up his hands in supplication. “Alright, so...maybe my interest in Sylvanas be a little more dan dat. What do you know about her?”

Brilla considered the question - almost interrogative. She felt a sudden thrill of danger. “Well, I only met her once or twice in life - we had very different interests. Between you and I, the whole family was...a little strange. Her and her sisters, I mean. Wild...private.” She kept her tone light. “I only met her once after her transformation. I think living elves made her...sad, in an angry sort of way.”

“And you wrote to her.”  
  
Brilla narrowed her eyes and treated him to her brittlest smile, wondering if she’d have to kill him. To her surprise, she found that she didn’t want to. “How did you know that?” she said, with forced sweetness.

Professur waved a hand lazily. “We be getting dere. Why did you write to her?” Deep green eyes regarded her calmly, and she decided in a single moment that she wouldn’t be able to kill him, not without explaining herself. She couldn’t explain exactly why, but there was something about the way the youth was testing her again, even in the face of her irritation, that intrigued her. She looked past him, into the stillness of the night.

“I wrote to her because I was glad she burned Darnassus.” She paused to see Professur’s reaction, but it was as if he was carved in stone. “I told her that I was thankful that she had struck against our most dangerous enemies, and that she could count me as a friend. Is that why you came here?” She tilted her chin and glared at him. “Am I to be arrested?” she asked, with false sweetness. Her fingers twitched, and she felt the tension build as he noticed. She'd destroy him with a thought if she had to, but he was probably very quick, and she needed to be ready.

Professur smiled broadly. “Well now. Let me be answering the first of your questions.” He sprung to his feet and began to pace slowly in front of the fire, hands behind his back. Brilla regarded him coolly, struck by the sudden shift in body language. If he knew how close she had come to blasting him! - but the troll had moved from listener to lecturer in an eyeblink, and the sense of danger receded.

“You say earlier dat death be changing your people, making dem something different. For the Banshee Queen, dat be a physical thing. For blood elves, it changed how you think. For the Zandalari, though, it kept dem de same. When de empire fell, the Zandalari denied death, made it no big thing. Dey refused to let death change dem. Nothin’ was gonna change de Zandalari! Even new empires could not get dem to stop their ways and pay attention. Thousands of years, everything staying de same.”

Brilla had no idea where this was going, but she slowly realized that she was listening to a prepared speech. However Professur acted, he was as nervous about this conversation as she had been.

“Dey would never have joined de Horde - you got to understand, the Darkspear are like...clever peasants to dem. Upstarts. But a banshee queen? Someone who lost to death and said NO? Dey would talk to one of dem, at the very least. Listen to one. And when Rastakhan fell…” He stopped suddenly, and turned to face her. There was a long pause, and he shrugged helplessly. “Death won. The Zandalari had to change. And right by der side, at de exact moment dey needed a new path, were de Darkspear and de Banshee Queen.”

It dawned on Brilla what this was. “You used your position as Speaker of the Horde in Zuldazar to advance Sylvanas’s position. Now that she’s gone...what, you worry that the Zandalari will lose faith in the Horde?”  
Professur nodded.

“You were close enough to the Warchief that she either informed you of my letter or you discovered it yourself.”  
Another nod. A flicked wrist produced a piece of familiar parchment, which flapped dramatically, and then daintily dropped into the flames.

Brilla leaned forward, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “You’re looking for other loyalists who escaped arrest.”

Professur collapsed back onto the stump. “What I’m doing is trying to stop anyting else from spiralling outta hand. De Amani gotta be kept in der place. It be safer dat way! Meeting you, well, dat’s a bonus.”

There was a pause, as the logs crackled between them.

“You weren’t at the Burning of Teldrassil, were you?” she asked, suspecting the answer.

“Nope.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not one bit. Night elf witches broke Azeroth.”

The bluntness of his reply surprised her. “The original mission was to kill Malfurion. On the whole, I would have preferred that result - but it’s all the same thing. Only total war in Kalimdor will safeguard the Horde.”

Professur looked her straight in the face again, and then smiled wide. “Maybe after we’re done with de Amani, you could be turning your attention to my Zandalari problem.”

Brilla rolled her eyes. “If I haven’t had my fill of trolls by then!”

Professur’s sudden laughter echoed through the twisted trees, and she smiled despite herself.


End file.
